


Denouement

by Venturous



Category: Original Work, V for Vendetta (2005)
Genre: Assisted Suicide, F/M, Mental Abuse, References to Suicide, Terrorism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-29
Updated: 2011-10-29
Packaged: 2017-10-26 21:42:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/288222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Venturous/pseuds/Venturous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She would be there for him in the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Denouement

**Author's Note:**

> fresh from a dream, this fic is a mash-up of my ex-husband, first great love and V, the terrorist, my first online fandom obsession.
> 
> inspired by hearing [this poem](http://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/index.php?date=2011/10/28)

Apparently, the center cannot hold. This place is descending into chaos. Every time I come down into this wing it’s worse. Now there’s bits of paper strewn everywhere - those damn cats.

What used to hold such hope now seems so cramped, a place for unhappiness to hide. He is always seeking that aerie for his tormented genius. and I am sick to death of it.

But I shudder to even think those words, for I know, can see, the denouement. He will ask me to help him, and as always, I will. 

The kitchen is cold and lifeless. I haven’t the time, or the will, to cook today. I trudge upstairs and find him cooking in the other kitchen, pot bubbling, pan sizzling. He looks up, half startled, deer in headlights, then a scowl of recognition. Then pity, or the fending off of grief. I cant tell the fucking difference. 

“Oh, Michael. Must you?”

He looks at me, levels his eyes to mine, as if to burrow in. He won't answer, not directly. he’s never had the stones... no, that’s not fair. But he will avoid intimate talk like the plague. I break the gaze, before it scours me completely, and turn away.

I’ve seen him through every fucking transition. I loved him through his escape from school and parents, through the brutality of grad school, the terrors of that first job. regardless of how far into my own hell I descended he still clamoured for me, a suffocating infant.

I opened the vein, willingly. I nearly bled out. When I finally left him, really, actually left, it incinerated my heart. But I escaped. Only to return for the bitter end.

I won’t share his fate. I won’t participate in his terrible beautiful plan. But I will get him there, that place where he can fulfill it. And after, I will help him put on the mask, and hold him til he’s dead.

Today I looked at the wretched state of things and began to make the list of what I’d have to get help repairing once he’s gone: the plumbing, the cleaning, the reconfiguring of this house into a sane living place. It would be easier to burn it down. But I won’t do that, will I? Someone, please, talk me out of living in this shrine. Maybe when he’s really dead I‘ll be free. 

But I‘ll be empty.


End file.
